RPlog:Mora Imprisoned Again
((OOC: In 21 ABY, Moralis Rodrigar was kidnapped and imprisoned by Jendoo the Hutt for the third time. Previous encounters between the two will be detailed at User:Moralis/Background Prose. While the previous episode in this storyline was written as fiction, this event was roleplayed live, by Mora's player, as a solo event with a small audience. As such, it has not been edited, save for the addition of a comma, the capitalization of a letter, and the correction of a single word. Furthermore, much less forethought went into the piece. Hence: apologies.)) A Dark Place An infinity of darkness in any traversable direction. Above is a very bright light, but it illuminates nothing but oneself. Gravity applies, and there seems to be solid ground, but if it is present, it is non-reflective. ---- Darkness. Forever. Again. I awaken without a sense of place or time. My first thought is that it's quiet. My last memory is very loud, and very bright. My second thought is that I should check on my party. "Colonel?" I whisper. There is no answer. I speak up. "Draelis?" Still, he doesn't answer. I try the Sergeant next, and for a third thought I resolve that I have become separated from my companions. This place is familiar, but in that infuriating sense of the term where one can't place the memory. I've been here before, but nothing specific comes to mind. The issue is compounded by the decided lack of scenic specifics to remember. The darkness really does seem to go on forever, and the light above my head is blinding. I can't look straight at it. I become more aware of my body, and I am compelled to stand. I stretch. I test the ground with a toe, before taking a couple of hesitant steps. I can't see it, but I'm definitely walking on it. Possibilities begin to run through my mind. Dreaming. Drugged. Drunk. Dead. The last one seems to fit best, but if it's correct, I've entered into a horrifying afterlife. I hope desperately that this vast place is populated by other corporeal objects, and that I might succeed in locating some of them before my eternity runs up. Then the ground that I don't seem to be walking on shakes violently, and an absolutely deafening voice conquers my mind. "Boona ri karte mala daqnik tal, Moralis Rodrigar!" Now I remember. Bits and pieces of my previous visit having returned to me, I answer. "Sorry, I didn't bring a translator." "Why have you returned, Moralis Rodrigar?" The voice speaks again, in Basic. I don't think I remember it ever having spoken Basic before. I am further taken aback by its sounding like an attractive female. Prior experience has shown that disembodied voices in vacuous infinities are almost universally Huttese and petrifying. "I'm not too clear on that myself. Haven't we had this conversation?" I ask the question, but I do not expect an answer. I expect it to declare that it, or its companions, had bidden me leave, and never return. "We bade you leave, Moralis Rodrigar, and never return." There it is. "I seem to recall being told as much upon my previous visit. Here are some things I don't recall: my first time here. The manner of my arrival or departure on any occasion. The nature of this place." "The nature of this place is not for your kind to know!" I am hardly an expert on the subject, but I believe this to be the first time that the Voice of the Gods has ever answered me directly. This morning, if it be morning, is full of surprises. "What do you mean, 'my kind?'" It shouldn't be a concern, given the circumstances, but I'm confused by the derogatory tone behind that term. I'm confused about a lot of things. The voice is silent for a long time. As my internal clock seems to need its batteries charged, I'm not sure how long. Minutes are hours, and hours are seconds. Finally, it ignores my question completely. "You were advised never to return, on pain of information-theoretic destruction. This marks the second time that you have violated that directive. On the first occasion, you were polite enough to depart in short order. Now, it is decided that you are to be Questioned." The way it pronounces that last word sends chills down my spine. "Ask away," I respond, but it doesn't. Instead, I am thrown forward into what I will call, for lack of a better term, the air. The sensation of rapid acceleration takes hold, and where I had been standing lonely in a sea of darkness, I am now flying at great speed through a beautiful, if featureless, nexus of color. Stars and worlds whiz past faster than I can mark them. Next I see places and faces, some strange, some familiar. I see Ridge, a smiley sixteen-year-old boy, leaning on his first speeder and smoking something far beyond his age. I see the bridge of the Reprisal, my younger form gazing out upon another, still younger doppelganger- for mere miles ahead of my old flagship's bridge rages the battle which destroyed its predecessor, and as though no time at all had passed I witness Crusader's fateful collision with her nemesis. Flame and blasterfire consume the space around the two great battleships, and, before I can cry out for my comrades, they are gone. I find I am no longer flying, but riding, Reprisal having formed itself around me, my old shipmates simply disappeared. Overwhelmed and confused, I take my seat in the command chair. Wondering if it could be so easy to end this ordeal and return to my life, I ask the old ship to plot me a course for Chandrila. I suspect that when I arrive, it will not be -my- Chandrila, but that several of my friends will be present to greet me nevertheless. Hell, I might even be there to greet myself. I am certainly embroiled in some sort of space/time disturbance. Alas, the navicomputer merely beeps twice, and to call up my position is to cue an error message, nothing more. A check on velocity reveals that the gauges have broken. Outside, colors and visions continue to fade in and out. I see Coruscant, liberated at last (for the fifth time). A joyous crowd cheers and dances in the streets. I see Danik Kreldin, cackling over me as I whimper and beg in exactly the manner that I've been trained not to do. I see Jendoo the Hutt, that bloated old bastard, casually informing me that I really ought to enlist with him, or he'll simply "reprogram" me, leaving me his servant in spite of my refusal. I have yet to understand what this means, or of what service I might be to a slug. And then there she is. "Ebony!" I cry out. She can't hear me. "EBONY!" Though I'm sure she doesn't hear, she turns now, looking straight at me. Her hair flips in the wind. She beckons for me to follow, and I turn the ship toward her, but we do not gain on her. She is simply there before me, a lovely specter, infinitely distant but clear as day. Then she is wounded, and falls, and I do not see her. I am distressed, but then two TIE fighters come into view, black as night and as menacing as ever. I look around me, and know that I am no longer aboard Reprisal, but rather seated in my X-Wing, aptly named for the occasion. "Ebony's Vengeance," I whisper into the radio I hadn't realized I wore. "Weapons free." And then I'm on the TIEs, pushing them into a retreat, back, back, away from the Republic line and the convoy I know must be there, and though the Interceptor runs from me, terrified that I've got behind him, I have eyes only for the Avenger, only for that evil son of a Sith in its cockpit, the one man who has made it his life's work to destroy that which I love. And now he is mine. I fire a torpedo, but it misses wide right, so I fire again, and it misses wide left. And then they are diving, and I'm leaning on the stick, putting all of my weight against it, willing this ship which has never let me down before to dive, DIVE, damn you, but she won't, and my marks fade away into the depths. I slam my hand on the console and swear. A few minutes pass, or perhaps a few weeks, and as far as my senses can tell, I return to normal space. As a matter of fact, it is Chandrilan space, and I yell out loud at the navicomputer. "You said 'Positioning Error,' you little digital Judas," I tell it, and it answers me: Positioning Error. I shrug, wondering what has happened to me, and radio the fleet. "Liberator control, this is Ebony's Vengeance on emergency final, request immediate clearance bay four." The reply is prompt. "Roger that, Vengeance, we have you on sensors. Permission to land straight in, bay four. Local traffic will clear. Glad to see you well, Commander." Relieved, I begin to guide the fighter back toward its berth. It does, in fact, seem to be my Chandrila: at least, the ship is here, I have been missed, as appropriate, and it's visually correct. It will be a very long debriefing. I glance out the starboard-side hatch, checking my orientation against Liberator, and no longer see it. Or the planet. Damn it. A look out the port side is even more startling: again, I have a visual on Crusader, a ship long destroyed, but this time, it is not engaged in its final, bitter struggle. Instead, it's a quiet, grey silhouette against the welcoming presence of Dac. I decide that, while this is a step backward, it's definitely progress when measured against arguing with the Gods in a vacuum, and begin thinking about what I'll say into the radio this time. But Crusader beats me to it. "Falcon One, Falcon One, this is Crusader, please respond." I look about me and discover that the controller is correct in his assertion that I'm piloting an A-Wing. Briefly, I wonder how this has happened, but such occurrences are losing their novelty, so I forgo speculation in order to indulge the flagship. "Crusader, Falcon One, request emergency straight-in." "Roger that, Falcon One. Straight-in approved, bay two. Welcome home, Captain." I guide the outdated interceptor toward its historical mothership, realizing as I approach them that I have sorely missed the blinking lights and bulbous hull before me. I loved that ship, or perhaps since it is suddenly intact once again I love it still, and I have struggled mightily with the burden of its destruction. Guilty and drunk, I resigned my commission a few years after the event, and all that has since taken place has felt, more than living, like penance. Glad, whatever the mysterious reason, for this unique opportunity, I savor the appearance of my old starborne home. But sooner than I'd have liked, the ship has finished its slow drift toward the hangar, and docking clamps have taken hold. I begin disengaging systems, listening to the pitched whine of repulsors coming to rest. Finally, the fighter is ready to be disembarked, and, realizing that I have much explaining ahead of me, but excited to stand once more in Crusader's fighter bay, I pop the hatch... ...and immediately find myself, once again, in an infinite sea of darkness, with an infinitely bright light directly overhead. Except this time there are other beings, seated at what look, to my mind, like oversized magistrates' podiums. Some of the beings are familiar - I definitely see something like a Hutt, and several humanoids - while others are beyond the descriptive limits of my vocabulary. There is something else: a very large, very intimidating, deep crimson witness' stand. "Moralis Rodrigar." That's me. But then, I knew that, and so did they. I'm not sure why they feel the need to mention it so often. But it's nice to know that they are a "they." It's the only concrete information I've gleaned from this experience so far. "You are to be Questioned. Please take your seat." It's pretty obvious which one they mean. I approach the witness stand, climbing on hands and knees up six massive stairs before reaching the top, where I discover that the chair is even larger than it had appeared at first glance. It is titanic. In this courtroom, I believe, mathematical paradoxes are resolved and conundrums of universal and grave philosophical import are debated. I sit, and find that I cannot see over the bench, so I stand, and discover that only my head is visible. With no small effort, for I am not a man of great physical strength, I raise my hands, grip the tabletop, and pull myself up onto it, where I sit cross-legged. I do not know how I have come to be here, I don't know where I am, and I don't know who is questioning me. But, insofar as I can be, I'm ready. "Moralis Rodrigar." There they go again with the name. "Do you understand the reason for your Questioning?" "Only in the abstract sense that I am obviously unwelcome in this place, whatever and wherever we are." "It is not a matter of welcome. It is a matter of right. You are welcome in this place, but you do not belong. How much of your memories from previous visits do you retain?" "Little," I reply. There is murmuring about me from the benches, as beings beyond my comprehension discuss things beyond my experience. "It is decided," the voice finally answers, "that in order to Question you properly you will be granted a limited explanation of our nature. This decision is undertaken on the understanding that you will likely recall none of it, whether you are ultimately returned to your realm, or destroyed." "Returned to my realm? I've left it?" I knew it, but I didn't -know- it until now. "Memories from your last intrusion upon our realm will now be returned to you," I am told, and a scene begins to unfold before me, like a holoprojection but in full color. I can't tell whether the scene is playing out before the entirety of what I now consider the courtroom, or if the visuals are only in my mind. Regardless, what I see before me is me. I am in the black sea, no court held around me, the light, bright as ever, bouncing off of my uniform and decorations to fade into eternity. This time, a droid stands before me. It's Sixty, but from my actions I don't think I recognize him. The booming voice, masculine and speaking Huttese, addresses me. Sixty translates. The voice reminds me that it bade me leave, and never return. It does not answer my questions. Sixty speaks candidly. "Greetings. I am Imperial Automata General Purpose Protocol Unit Y-60B. You are Admiral Moralis Rodrigar." "Not anymore," I tell him. "I know you. You are Admiral Moralis Rodrigar." "You're half right," I answer. "Where are we?" "We must depart." I remember him saying that. I remember being frustrated with the response. I babble for a moment, spouting empirical truths about navigation requiring a point of origin, before the droid speaks again. "I will navigate," he tells me, and renders me unconscious. The scene stops, and I look around me. I'm back in the otherworldly courtroom, unsure whether I had left. "This was the nature of your previous visit. Your Questioning will begin. How did the mechanical construct designated Why Six Oh Bee come to join you here?" "I don't know." "How was it able to deliver you from this place unto your realm of origin?" "I don't know. I thought you were going to provide me with a limited explanation of-" "This place is of the Force," the voice booms, pretty and feminine and scarier than anything else I know. "It exists neither within your universe nor without. Mechanical constructs cannot exist within the Force. We require an explanation." I think carefully on what has been revealed. I know little of the Force, but the implications are severe. I doubt very much that I possess the first droid to ascend to a spiritual level of consciousness. Though it would explain very much about his personality. I ponder the knowledge that I am within the Force, and the possibility that I'm being misled, which strikes me as unlikely. These beings seem to want answers very badly, and I don't see how untruth would further their goal. I think about what I -do- know of the Force, and what I've read of the Old Jedi Order, and my considered response is thus: "I'm sorry, I think we're experiencing a bit of culture clash. Is Master Qui-Gon available?" A pause. The answer, whatever it may be, will be revealing; this I know. "No," comes my answer. Succinct and informative. "Fair enough," I say. "I have determined that you are neither gods nor my enemies, and I humbly request that in order to help me answer your questions I be permitted to table my own as they arise." "Granted." "I further request, with equal humility, that should you find yourselves unable or unwilling to answer my questions, you advise me to that effect, rather than ignoring me as you have done. The effect of unsolicited silence upon a confused member of my species is profound and counterproductive." Another pause. "Granted." "Thank you." I breathe a sigh of relief. "By what means may a being such as myself enter into this realm?" "This is one of the Questions we wish to address." "Is this the afterlife?" "Not precisely." "Can this place be accessed by technological means?" "Not to our knowledge. The only gateway to our realm is spiritual in nature." "You say that this place is of the Force. I leave for a moment the question of how my droid came to be here. I am not a Jedi. It is my understanding that I should not be able to communicate with the Force, of which you say you are a part." "That you are not a Jedi is also a subject of confusion, to be addressed at these proceedings." "What do you mean? I don't possess the ability." "Yes you do," comes a voice I haven't heard before. It's just as loud, and just as impressive, and also speaks Basic, but it's male. "What?" I snap back. "Yes," answers the feminine voice, more gently. "You do." "I have never had any indication that I am a magician," I tell them. It's the truth, and in honesty, it's bothered me. I've had friends who could perform those tricks, who have devoted their lives to that strange religion. They've all made much more impressive and lasting contributions to the health of the galaxy than I have ever hoped to do. There is also the angle to consider wherein they can do bloody -magic-. I should think I'd be aware if I were one of them. "This is why we are confused," I'm told. "That you are not a Jedi is of little import and no real concern. Many disciplines exist which have learned to harness and channel the Force. However, beings of your species who carry the ability to channel the Force generally manifest that ability at a relatively early age. You are in the third decade of your life, by the way that your species reckons time, and yet you have presented no indication of your potential, to yourself or to many others." "To many others? There are some who know, yet I until now have not?" "We are unable to field this query." I am frustrated. This is a heavy accusation. "Unable, or unwilling?" "We are also unable to field -this- query." Damn them. "Fine. I am a Jedi, I just don't know it. Given, for the purpose of explaining our communication." I'm beginning to distinguish between the gargantuan and godlike forms behind the benches, and the one that I have identified as the speaker nods. She actually nods. If I were a religious man, I would be overcome. "I cannot explain the droid's presence here," I continue. "How much knowledge of events in my realm do you possess?" More murmuring. "Unable to answer." "Fine. Then I don't know how I got here, or how I left. Last time, this time, or any time." "It was Jendoo," advises a tiny metallic voice. At first, I imagine that this is another of the gods, having kept its silence until now. Until I look to my left. A squat durasteel man stands on what should have been my chair. "Greetings!" He addresses the courtroom cheerily. "I am Imperial Automata General Purpose Protocol Unit Y-60B." The noise from the benches is no longer a murmur so much as a dull roar. "How have you come to this place?" "I am not here." And I thought my hosts were cryptic. "Please elaborate." "Certainly." The droid activates its pitiful little boosters, to join me on my mammoth perch. "The sentient commonly referred to as Jendoo the Hutt has imprisoned Commander Rodrigar. He is currently in the Hutt's prison, connected to a neural interface which the Hutt does not fully understand, but which he has successfully used in the past to wipe a sentient's mind clean and rebuild it to his liking. During his previous visit, I was able to interface with the device, and by extension with the Commander's mind, enabling me to interact with this place. I removed the Commander from your presence by simply deactivating the device; I did not then nor have I since come to understand the experience." This time, I ask the question. "How did you come back now? And how did I get here?" "You, Commander, are likely in the Hutt's custody once more, and back in his neural device. I am not here, but you remember me. And so I suspect I am a projection of your mind. You're quite mad, you know." I am, and I know it, so this satisfies me. It does not surprise me that my mind would unlock memories closed to me in such a way. My mind is a frightening place, more frightening than the one we occupy now. It seems to satisfy the Force-gods, as well, because they will no longer let me get a word in. "This follows. If the device in question somehow confers access to our realm upon a being who is not sensitive to the Force in the way that you are, they will find themselves in much the same predicament as you experienced earlier. But they will not be able to communicate with us. We should imagine that the experience of an indeterminate period spent in total isolation would render most beings quite insane. Thank you for your insight. "Furthermore, it is now understood that you have not come to this place voluntarily, at this time or at any time in the past. As such we do not feel it would be appropriate to subject you to information-theoretic destruction." This still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. If this place is truly within the Force, which I now believe to be true, and these beings are truly of the Force, which also is becoming quite acceptable as I consider the revelations of the past few minutes... if all of these things are true, I suspect that they should neither want nor be willing to destroy a life. "Is that really something that you would do?" "Our apologies, Moralis Rodrigar." I sigh, but this time, it is not with relief. "Are you guys... -are- you the Force? In, you know, -that- sense?" "No," comes a prompt reply. "Do you accept that while you have been unaware of it, you are sensitive to the Force?" "Yes." "Do you further accept that, as a corporeal entity, you do not belong in our realm?" "Yes," I answer. "Then leave this place, Moralis Rodrigar, and never return." For the second time today, I awaken with no sense of where I am. Category:Logs